And you, a-weary of her seeming dullness,
Grew colder day by day. But once you paused
Beside her seat, and murmured words of praise.
Praise from your lips! My God! the ecstasy
Of that dear moment! Each bright word, embalmed
In Memory’s tears of amber, gleams there yet—
The costliest beads in her rich rosary.
But you were blind! And after that a cloud,
Colder and darker, hung between her heart
And yours. There were malicious, lovely lips,